Halsey:Fuck, she said that?
OC:Ouch, why does that make me physically ill?
Posey:When the hell did she say that?
Penny:I didn’t want to say anything at first, but yeah, she’s said it. I just don’t think she sees you as someone she could be with. Like I said before, more of a brother.
Silas:This doesn’t bode well for us.
Pacey:He did something monumental, and it freaked her out. So what the hell is he supposed to do? Fuck her?
Halsey:I’m not fucking her.
Penny:That actually might work.
Posey:I’m all for Halsey fucking her.
OC:I know I’m not supposed to mention the penis, but dude, give her the good stuff and she’ll come back for more.
Silas:It’s risky, but I say fuck her too.
Halsey:You are all useless. You’ve created a situation where I’ve failed time after time and sure, some of it has been my fault, but this advice has been asinine. If anything, the only accomplishment I’ve made when it comes to Blakely is being friend-zoned. So thank you. Also, I’m not fucking her!
OC:Even though I read that as a nice thank you, I think this is a situation where we’re not supposed to say you’re welcome.
Posey:You’re going to be removed again.
OC:Understood.
“Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?” I ask as I casually lean back on the couch, electrolyte drink in hand. Even though I’m not playing right now, I still adhere to no drinking before a game—or during for that matter in my situation. Blakely has asked me why I don’t drink a beer while watching the game, and I tell her because I wouldn’t be able to drink one during the game if I was playing. She thought it was funny.
That’s me, the fucking funny brother.
The funny brother drinking the electrolytes like a goddamn geek, wearing an Agitators shirt while trying to fixate on the tied game in front of me—rather than look at Blakely—because I might say something stupid like . . . do you want to go fuck?
Yup.
That’s what those stupid texts have done to me. They’ve made me think about fucking her way too much and now it’s in my brain, ready to be unleashed by my stupidity.
Another reason I’m not drinking any alcohol. Because one too many might lead me to say something stupid.
“Do you miss playing?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Watching them and being unable to help is way more painful than this ankle injury.”
“Would you rather play injured?”
“Yeah.” I move my thumb over my jaw, and from the corner of my eye, I catch her watching the small movement. “But I know it would be stupid. If I played injured, it would hurt the team more than help them.”
“Because you could possibly reinjure it?”
Wow, this is the most she’s talked to me since the dress shop.
“That and because I wouldn’t be on top of my game. I’d probably be slow, and that’s not helpful to anyone.”
“Do you think you’ll be ready in a few days?”
